Subiaco

On a hill in western Arkansas

There is a monastic community

Where each gives according to his ability

And receives according to his need

But sadly and in profile

So what if night’s wakeful hand

Unleashes carnivorous clouds

So what if animals rest before sleep

Sometimes the monks ponder

A very real and deep spiritual bond

Between the apple and the knife

The monks inhabit a state of mind

They abandoned cities of troubled swagger

Towns of tepid severity

They are auditors of moonlight

And wear sorrow’s habit of conquest

They cannot see the evident and obvious

Bruised starlight in their eyes

Why should they seek the end of the rope

The monks are unfamiliar with visual stereotypes

Unequipped to wear complacent public faces

They walk this interminable span of gullied land

Their hearts asking no questions

These monks who were born wounded

Six times in behalf of prodigal shadows